


The Last Twins

by puddleofink



Category: Alice Oseman, Osemanverse, Radio Silence - Alice Oseman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddleofink/pseuds/puddleofink
Summary: Contains Radio Silence spoilers!After quitting university, Aled has been living with Carys in London, working on Universe City and trying to figure out what to do with his life. Mentally, he has improved a lot since leaving education and his mum behind, but now, old habits and thinking patterns are starting to slip back into place. His life is seemingly perfect now, so why does nothing feel right?Warning: discusses mental health, Carol Last being her emotionally abusive self, and there's a mention of suicide. It's not too dramatic though.Created for the 2018 Osemanverse Big Bang.





	The Last Twins

“Don’t forget your charger.”

Frances is packing up her stuff after a weekend staying over. I unplug the lead and hand it to her, and she squeezes it into her already bursting backpack. She’s loaded up with all the Universe City merch we’ve made recently - and by “we” I mean me and Frances, but also Billy and Harriet and the rest of the Universe City “team,” now that it’s big enough to need management. Frances and I were both most excited by the leggings with her radio and cityscape illustrations printed all over. We are both wearing them now, twinning.

This weekend we’ve been binging Queer Eye on Carys’ Netflix account and hiding in my room from Carys’ grown-up work friends so we didn’t embarrass her during her dinner party, then letting her join in the marathoning the morning after, drinking hot chocolate. These weekends with Frances are my favourite thing at the moment. I never thought a person would be the thing keeping me going - it was always music, books, creating things, that I turned to before.

It’s only when she is leaving that she tells me.

“Well then, back to my studies! I’ll need you to help me survive all these deadlines by sending supportive memes. And I won’t be able to stay over again for a while.”

Oh.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah. Ugh, I never thought that art could be stressful. Still, it will be summer soon, and I’ll be back to pester you 24/7.”

“Ha, can’t wait.”

We head downstairs, where Carys is consulting Daisy on what she should wear out tonight. It’s a Sunday, I don’t know where she’s going or who else would be mad enough to go out the night before work, but whatever, she seems cheerful.

I walk Frances to the train station and we talk about Universe City, properly for the first time this weekend. Ever since it started making decent money, with ads and merch and Patreon, Frances has become the paid Universe City artist. Her art course has been interfering with this lately though, and the next few episodes don’t have artwork lined up for them. I was told by Billy to encourage her to get some done when I saw her this weekend, but I haven’t. I don’t mind if there’s a break in the aesthetic. Of course, I’m not supposed to call it an aesthetic anymore - it’s a “brand”, and Frances is now an irreplaceable part of it. It’s no longer just my own. But I guess it gives her another incentive to stay friends with me.

When she gets on the train, I run alongside and reach out my hand, and she leans out the window to reach back until the train’s speed carries us apart and she disappears, like we’re in some hetero romance, just like we do every time now. People stare. I don’t usually care about that, not anymore, but this time when I turn around to walk home and meet the eye of some middle aged man pointing it out to his wife, I feel weird, putting my headphones in and keeping my eyes down until I reach home.

At home, in my room, the sky outside turning darker and darker shades of blue, I realise that I have nothing else planned. Nothing imminent to look forward to. Dan’s exams are approaching - not that I ever see him during term time anyway - and with Frances gone, I don’t have anyone to do things with. Apart from Carys. But I stopped hanging out with her and her friends months ago. We didn’t really have anything in common and I’m sure they were only hanging out with me to be polite.

How have I been here for almost a year and still made no friends? I have the internet friends of course. The fellow “creators”. But it all feels a bit… businessy, when I message them. And most of them live too far away to see them in person, so that leaves me with nothing but myself.

I don’t know what to do now. I look out the window and watch the sky darken for a while, thinking about all the things I ought to be doing. I flip open my laptop and freeze at the last tabs I had open. Job Seeking websites. Volunteering. My therapist suggested I look for something to do “in the real world” to “get me out of my shell”. She’s kept suggesting the same thing over and over, but ever since the Universe City viewership has been decreasing recently, it’s seemed like a much more sensible option to look for something to back me up if this all goes under. Something to put under the heading “work experience” on my CV, which currently holds only 2 pathetic summer jobs from over two years ago.

I close those tabs, and my email, trying to ignore the bold black **24** which indicates all the people I have yet to get back to, mostly about Universe City stuff. After opening and closing Netflix and Spotify a few times, I ultimately turn to my usual evening comfort - the fandom. They’re overwhelming, I guess, but scrolling through their tweets and comments not directed at me, but at each other - threads discussing headcanons, cosplay, fanfiction - it’s… nice. It’s nice that I united these people, unintentionally, through the stupid daydreams I strung into a story about a guy called Radio.  
Not a guy. He feels like a guy today, kind of. I don’t know where I get that feeling from, I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like. But no, Radio is supposed to be totally neutral, right?

And that’s what fills some people with enough anger that they feel the need to post comments like this one.  

“So is this faggot trying to be a tranny now?”

It’s below a video I did on another YouTuber’s channel, a Q&A, one of the only videos I’ve ever done with my face in it, and the only time I’ve ever spoken about myself on the internet, at least in any detail. It has more dislikes than any of my Universe City episodes, and as I continue to scroll, I see more and more comments about that one question, snuck in at the end when I least expected it:

 

Fantasy Fanatic @univer_ssity

...so is Aled transgender or something? What are their pronouns? love your podcast x #AledxPhilQandA

 

I would rather he had edited that one out, but I somehow didn’t feel able to ask him. He was obviously doing me a huge favour by having me on his channel - he has way more subscribers than me. It was stupid. I didn’t know what to say, but I was trying so hard to be upbeat and stuff, not a weird, quiet kid, so while my brain froze up inside, the outer me laughed and too-cheerfully said “Whatever you want to call me is fine with me.”

So now there are a bunch of threads talking about it, some enthusiastically insisting this means I’m agender, or genderfluid, or pangender, etc, some making themselves feel superior by putting down “the Tumblr generation”, some being outright transphobic. None make me feel particularly good. I shut my laptop and head out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. More of a reflex than anything, I mean, tea is okay, but not good enough to warrant the ten plus cups per day I’m drinking at the moment. It’s just a good excuse to not think for five minutes, a technique I employed a lot during my university year.

As I stir the milk in, Carys appears again, this time dressed in one of the outfits picked earlier, ready to head out. She used to always ask me if I wanted to come out with her, and sometimes I would say yes. But I stopped saying yes a while ago, and she stopped asking not long after. I guess it shows that she was always just asking me out of politeness. Maybe we were always too different to be close.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“I’m going out now.”

“Cool.”

“Want to come?”

I look up from my swirling pool of tea and she meets my eye, her face unsmiling, as usual, but the kind unsmiling version, not disdainful or bored or impatient. Her makeup looks great.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m a bit tired,” I say

“You okay?” she asks. She seems… not _concerned,_ but hesitant. Uncertain.

“Yeah. Like I said, I’m just tired.” I smile at her and she doesn’t smile back. “Do I really look that bad?” I say, kind of joking.

“Nah, you’re as adorable as ever,” she says, snapping back into hustle mode, grabbing her alcohol from the counter beside me and checking for the jangle of keys in her bag. “See you later,” she calls as she leaves.

“Bye,” I murmur, carrying my mug back to my bedroom. I don’t know what to do now. Should I make a start at those emails? But if I do, it’ll probably take me all night, and I’m supposed to be focusing on sticking to a regular sleep schedule. Strict instructions from my therapist.

It’s only 8pm but I can’t think of anything I want to do but lie down and sleep. I don’t bother changing into my pyjamas, and as the darkness outside deepens slowly, the stars come out. Not the real stars - those are drowned out by streetlights at all times - but the stars on my ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark plastic stars blu-tacked up there, hundreds of them. It took me hours and a lot of arm cramp to get them up there. It was only after I got them up that Daisy told me the landlady doesn’t allow blu-tack, but she didn’t get me to take them down, and when the landlady came round to inspect things, she didn’t look up, so I guess I’m safe for now, with my own private galaxy.

They last a surprisingly long time. I stare and stare at them, and by the time I can’t make a single one out in the darkness, I remember I had a cup of tea. I put my finger in to test it, and it’s cold. It’s cold in my room too so I get under the duvet in my clothes and pull my teddy bear close to me and call “goodnight” to the empty house. And I don’t fall asleep for a long time.

 

*****

 

“We’d like to invite you for a job interview on the 22nd of this month at 11:30 am.”

I close the email. It’s getting worse - there are so many I haven’t replied to. I’m now only able to manage one email an hour on a good day, and it’s piling up towards 100. Haven’t answered my phone or listened to the voicemail in… how long has it been?

My therapist said to celebrate the small victories. I went to a job interview today, but I can’t think about that without thinking about all the ways it went wrong, so instead of congratulating myself for making out of the house, I’m writing, tapping away at a new Universe City plot. I should be working on the next episode, but I had this new idea, something I’m not sure how to fit in. Maybe I won’t even make it into an episode. I like that this is mine - no expectations, no audience, no criticism. I know people say criticism is “constructive”. How can I expect to improve if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong? But I don’t want to improve. I just want to make things.

Carys is there, suddenly, and I don’t know how long she’s been there. Maybe hours. Probably only seconds, but I don’t know, I don’t know the last time I looked up. This new story is engulfing, and I want to keep pouring it out of me, quick, before I have the time to think about all the things that have been making it not that fun anymore, the sponsorships and collaborations and analytics and target audience and everything. As long as I keep my fingers in the story I can keep the real world out of my head.

“We’re getting a takeaway. Do you want anything?” Carys asks, towering over me. I take my headphones out and sit up, only then noticing the ache in my back from slouching. Maybe I should be sitting at my desk, not in bed.

“Um… no, I’m okay thanks,” I say.

“There’s no food in the house,” she says.

“There’s bread.” I think.

“It’s stale.”

“I’ll just toast it.”

She walks out without saying anything. She had that weird concerned look again. It’s unusual for her, usually she’s oblivious to all the random shifts my brain goes through. Sometimes I wonder if she notices emotion at all, or if I just look the same all the time, a steady neutral with occasional bouts of laughter or a small frown. Mask face. Void. It’s fine, I don’t hold it against her. I don’t expect her to be able to read me - actually that would be quite freaky, like twin telepathy. No one knows what I’m feeling.

Ugh, that is the angstiest thought I’ve had all day.

Maybe it was rude of me to turn down a takeaway. Actually, now I think about it, I’m kind of hungry. But I have too much to write to be able to stop now.

I put my hands to the keyboard again and see there’s a sentence hanging unfinished in the middle of the screen. The laptop burns my legs a little and I can’t remember what I was going to say next. Oh god, what was it? “Radio turns down an alley and…” It was a really good idea. Was it to do with the new sidekick? No, I already did that part.

For fuck’s sake.

I slam the laptop shut and throw it to the end of the bed, but it bounces weirdly and clatters to the floor. The noise makes me jump even though I saw it coming, and for some reason I feel like crying. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten today. Maybe I’ll do that now. If I can get up.

Why bother?

But Carys is back again, standing in the doorway, eyeing my laptop.

“We’re getting a Nando’s. Sure you don’t want any?”

“Uh, I think I will actually.”

“What do you want?”

“Uh… Can I look at the menu?”

“Dude, you literally always get the same thing.”

“Right. Uh, the usual, I guess.”

“Cool.” She hovers still. Fixing me with that look. “How was the thing today?”

She means the interview.

“Fine.” I stand up and go to walk past her, hoping that will indicate that I don’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t move out of my way, and I have to step back again.

“Have you lost weight?” she asks, touching my wrist.

“How should I know? Can I go to the toilet please?”

“Sure.” She leaves to go to the kitchen. I go and pee, then in the kitchen, Daisy is tapping our order in on Deliveroo.

“You owe me like 10 quid for your bit,” says Daisy.

“Right,” I say, not sure if she wants the money now. Ah, crap, I didn’t work this into my budget. It’s so hard to stick to, especially because I don’t want to tell anyone else about it. It’s pretty tight, which doesn’t make sense since Universe City is at the peak of its success. Carys already thinks I’m mad for looking for a job. But the internet and fandom are too unreliable for me to place all my trust in it for keeping me alive, which is what I’m doing at the moment. So I worked out a budget, which included £10 per week for food, and I have not been sticking to it very well. Or at least, I do for most of the week, and then something like this will happen and my spending will double. I can feel my stomach knotting up. Failed again. I won’t even be able to enjoy this food.

“So how’s the writing going? Were you working on Universe City just now?” Carys asks.

“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t really anything to do with the current story. I’ll fit it in later though maybe.”

“Any sneaky spoilers you can share?”

This catches me off guard. I don’t think Carys even bothers to listen to Universe City anymore. At first she seemed kind of impressed with it, and then her interest seemed to dwindle. Maybe it’s because it’s no longer really about her. It feels kind of strange to send messages to February Friday when she’s sharing a house with me, so I just haven’t mentioned her. (The fans have all speculated about this of course - conspiracy theories and even fanfiction have arisen from February’s absence. No one has found out yet that I’m living with a girl who calls herself February, and I hope they never do.)

Or maybe it’s not that, maybe my story has just become… Dull. Maybe it’s inevitable that anyone who loves something will eventually get bored of it, even Universe City. Maybe I’ll get bored of it too, one day.

“Uh… Well I’m making a new character who’s an inventor and they’ve invented something which allows them to walk on water, and then there’s going to be this one episode where they have to save this other character, who’s going to be from a previous story arc, though I haven’t planned that bit out yet, and he gets kidnapped by the B2D-alpha creator, you know, the professor I just introduced a few weeks ago? Or was it longer… And then - oh! I remember what I was going to write now.”

I rush back to my laptop and continue typing, and when Carys brings my food in, I thank her, and then I carry on and forget that there’s food there, and she comes in again sometime later and says “You haven’t eaten.”

And my train of thought goes again.

“What do you care? Stop trying to act like… Like you know better than me. You act like you... I… I can look after myself.” I don’t look at her, I don’t want to see her expression, pitying, or maybe just pissed off.

And then she just leaves.

She’s been so weird recently. Or maybe it’s me. I don’t know. But I do know I can’t bear to be here anymore, I feel too restless, too fed up, and I’m tired of thinking. I grab my phone, headphones, shoes and keys and go to my door. I hear Carys and Daisy murmuring downstairs, or maybe it’s next door. I hesitate for several long moments. Carys walks past my door towards her bedroom and I pull inside my room until she’s passed, and then I pad shoeless down the stairs, only noticing that I picked up my lime green vans when I slip them on at the door. Haven’t worn these in a while.

I get to the end of the road before I realise that it’s kind of cold. The first streetlights are coming on and I look back up the hill, and the sun is still shining into my bedroom window and warming up the inside, I can see it from here. I’ll just have to walk fast to warm up. I don’t like to dawdle anyway.

I pick a playlist on my Spotify, the one I titled “feelin angsty”, and I try to laugh at myself and make light of what I’m feeling right now, just as I can when I’m happy and thinking about the silly knots my thoughts tie themselves in sometimes, but it doesn’t seem funny right now. Maybe it will tomorrow.

 

*****

 

It’s dark now and I’m in Battersea Park and it’s empty. I love coming to the big parks, the parts that are let slightly wild. It’s like being back home when I would walk out of our little town and quickly there would be no sign of human existence apart from occasional dog walkers, and gates that separated neatly divided fields. But no houses or concrete or anything. I can pretend I’m the only person left in the universe.

My music stops. I check my phone and my playlist has come to an end. That’s how long I’ve been walking for. I put my phone away before I’m tempted to check Twitter or something, and that might start up the spiralling thoughts that I’ve just about managed to suppress, but I’m not in the countryside, I’m in a park in the city, and in the city, parks have a closing time, so I have to leave. Maybe it’d be cool to be locked in a park overnight. Or maybe not. It’s so dark, and who knows who else is in here. A spike of anxiety hits me now that I don’t have emo music to distract me, and as I hurry towards the gates, I veer off the path when I hear people walking towards me, just in case they’re murderers. Or violent homophobes.

I make it out of the gates and start heading towards the bridge. I guess the plus of living in the city is I can get the best of both worlds - the peace of the parks, and then I can look out over the city and watch the twinkling street lights, like the stars have fallen down. Maybe that’s why there are none in the sky - it’s not artificial light pollution, it’s that the stars have fallen and now they’re lighting up from below, like the ground and the sky are in reverse.

I’m just at the start of the bridge when my phone rings, loud through my headphones. That’ll be Carys, I guess, finally noticing I’m gone. Oh god, I’m like a tantruming child, running away from home for attention. Ugh, I hate myself.

I answer quickly.

“Hi,” I say, “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was going out.”

Carys doesn’t respond, because it’s not Carys on the phone.

“Hey, Ally.” A breathy voice, one I haven’t heard in months. It’s Mum.

 

*****

 

I wake up to the sound of my alarm. I set it to something really soothing so that I’d have a nice gentle awakening every morning, but now the melody seems just as aggressive and irritating as an incessant beep.

I pick up my work clothes from where I left them in the middle of my floor last night and put them with my towel by the shower, and then decide to have a coffee before showering. Why the fuck did I agree to take the morning shift from Holly?

“Hey February, how’d you sleep?”

It’s Daisy, coming in from her morning run. I don’t know where that girl gets the motivation to get up this early every day, but damn, you can see the payoff in her figure. Not to be objectifying or anything.

“Oh, I was sleeping fine, until I had to wake up,” I say.

“Haha. Could you make me one too?” She points to the coffee in my hand.

“Yeah.”

Coffee made, I shower quickly and dress, then decide I need to change when I detect the day-old smell from my shirt. I know it makes your clothes fall apart washing them all the time, but I can’t seem to manage wearing something more than once. But with work at least I have the excuse of needing to look, and smell, professional.

I’m just about ready to go, but on my way down, seeing the dumbass sign on Aled’s door, “Aled’s Room” like he’s six, reminds me that I should probably check on him. He’s been fine for so long that it should feel weird to need to check on him again, but I seem to be slipping easily back into it, and he pops into my head at least 20 times a day. Just like when he first came to live with me, when he had to leave Frances’ house, both because she was leaving to art school and because she-who-must-not-be-named wouldn’t leave him alone when he was just across the street. Ugh. It makes my skin crawl just to think about her.

“Aled?” I call through the door, just softly. He might be asleep. Lucky bastard doesn’t ever need to get up early - he sets his own working hours.

There is no response. I guess I could just leave it. He seemed pretty upset last night though, and he never usually snaps like that, even though if I said shit like that it wouldn’t mean anything. I’m just a natural bitch.

I push open the door a crack, and then see that light is streaming into the room, so I push further and the curtains are wide open and there’s no Aled in his bed, just a pile of duvet on the floor. Takes me back to the early days when Aled would occasionally just… disappear. This hasn’t happened for a while though, and that’s concerning, like he’s back in the place he was a year ago.

Fuck.

“Have you seen Aled?” I ask Daisy when she comes upstairs. She peers past me into his room and shakes her head.

“Maybe he just went out for a morning walk,” she says.

“Maybe. Mmm. When was the last time you saw him?”

“When we ordered food yesterday. You?”

“Like an hour after that.”

“Well, if you’re worried, call him.” She heads past into her room.

I get out my phone and call, but it goes straight to voicemail. I step into his room, looking to see if he’s left his phone in here, but it’s not obviously out and I don’t want to go sifting through his stuff. He probably has just gone for a walk.

“The bus leaves in 5 minutes,” says Daisy, coming out with her bag. We both have work so we’re travelling into town together.

“I’m going to wait for a bit,” I say.

“You’ll be late.”

“Yeah no shit.” I call him again, but of course, I still get voicemail. Ugh, it’s too early in the morning for my brain to be buzzing like this.

“He’s a lot better than he has been you know,” she says, trying to give an encouraging smile. “And you can’t always be around to look out for him.”

“I’m not always around.” He’s had to do so much by himself. Maybe that means he doesn’t need me now, and it’s just me wanting to put my own mind to rest by sorting out that argument last night. If you can call it an argument.

“I’m still going to stay. Sorry.” I head down the stairs and slump on the sofa, staring at my phone like he’s about to call me back. I hear the door open, Daisy leaving. I scroll through Instagram to distract myself, then decide to make a coffee, then remember that I need to call work to tell them I’m going to be late. I’m just scrolling to find their number when I hear the front door again, and I didn’t realise my chest was so constricted until it lifts at that sound and I can breathe again.

“It’s me,” I hear. It’s Daisy. Not Aled. The feeling comes back, even tighter than before, and this must be what it feels like when Aled talks about his “anxiety”. I always scoff at him a little bit, not to be mean, just because it’s such, I don’t know, a buzzword or whatever. Everyone gets nervous. But this feels different, this feels like... dread.

“What are you doing back?” I ask.

“I felt bad about leaving you to worry. D’you want to go and look for him? Better than sitting around here. He can’t be far.”

“Yeah… I don’t want it to seem like I’m stalking him though. He might just want to be alone.”

“Dude, if you’re worried, that’s a legit reason to want to find him. Anyway, he’s alone all the time, he can survive us tracking him down and bothering him this one time. We always leave him alone.”

“Not _always...“_ Right? I spend time with him, and ask him about his day and stuff. He’s not alone, not in a bad way. Not like when he was at university. When was the last time we ate together?

“Whatever, shall we go?” She jangles her car keys, and I follow her out. Her car smells like her. It’s nice.

We’re driving in silence - it seems inappropriate to listen to music right now.

“Where should we check first?” she asks.

“Uh… I don’t know, should we just drive round all the parks? That used to work,” I say.

“Might take a while.”

“Yeah. Well, if he left this morning, he can’t have gone more than… 10 miles? And only if he was walking continuously.”

“And if he left last night sometime?” I wish she hadn’t suggested that.

“Hmm. Let’s just start with the parks.”

“Okay.” She drives us in a kind of spiral around the nearest places, small dog walking patches you can see pretty much the entirety of without having to get out of the car. No Aled, as far as I can tell. Unless he’s hiding in the bushes or something, or up a tree. That would be so like him. Getting a new creative perspective on the world.

“Maybe I should get out to look?” I say.

“If you want.”

“Hmm. No. It’s fine. He wouldn’t stay this close by anyway.”

“So how far do you think he is?”

“He wouldn’t have gone out last night. He doesn’t like it alone in the dark in the city. And anyway, he would have been back by now, even he can’t walk about all night without sleep.”

“So not far?” She sounds like she’s asking me genuinely, like I know.

“I don’t know, man. I don’t have a twin raydar or anything.”

“Just need to know if I need to call work.”

“Yeah, do that.”

She pulls up on the side of the road to call, and I roll the window up and down, staring out. I see a blonde head appear round the corner of the street, but when I strain to see the face it’s not him. Just some hipster with a manbun. Definitely not him.

We set off again, and drive round all these familiar places, places I haven’t really been to in ages because the only time I ever needed to be here was to look for Aled. He likes to go some strange places. I only really go into the city, out for drinks and meals and round to friends’ houses. Aled sees all the little nooks he can hide himself away in.

It’s hard to judge time with no music. We’ve been driving quite a while when we get to Battersea Park, one of his favourite places to sit and mope. I get out while Daisy finds a backstreet to park in. Being surrounded by all these dog walkers and parents with little kids and other randomers out for a stroll, making the most of the fair weather and the pleasant rows of wildflowers which have been not-so-wildly grown in neat square patches along the side of the path, all of it makes it seem so ridiculous that I’m out here searching for my brother, as though he’s not an adult, as though he’s not allowed to go out for a walk on a nice day. If I came across him now, what would I say? “Oh hi, you didn’t tell me you were going out, probably because I’m not your mum and you can do what you like, but I immediately assumed you’d thrown yourself off a bridge or something just because you snapped at me last night.” This is so fucking dumb.

I turn to leave having barely made it inside the park, and bump into Daisy.

“Can we go?” I say, not really asking since I’m leaving anyway.

“Hey, wait. Don’t you want to look for him?”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know if I want to look for him. I do know that I’m missing work, and now I’ve made Daisy miss work, and Aled’s probably back at home on his laptop and I feel so embarrassed that I got worked up like this. Stupid fucking tightness in my chest won’t go away though.

“February?”

“What?” I spin round to face her, spitting flames. Not the best place to start an argument, and Daisy’s done nothing wrong, but I just need to scream. But she doesn’t fight back, she just comes and pulls me into a half hug, squeezing me for a second then stepping back.

“I know you’re worried, honey. I’m sure he’s fine. I know that’s not a very helpful thing to say but… Maybe we should head back home, if this isn’t helping you.”

“It’s not supposed to be helping me, it’s supposed to be helping him, but it’s useless, he could be anywhere and we could search for days and not find him. So yeah, let’s go.”

I stamp on ahead until I realise I don’t know where the car is parked.

“I couldn’t find any parking on this street, so it’s on the other side of the bridge,” she says.

We start walking. It doesn’t matter which bridge you go to across the Thames, it will always be covered in tourists taking photos of the river. I wonder how many millions of basically identical photos have been taken throughout London. Many, many millions. If I asked Aled he’d probably be able to find some obscure article about it estimating how many football pitches could be covered by all those photos if you laid them side to side. Aled is good at stuff like that, being interested in the randomest crap, and somehow making you interested too.

I try calling him again. Still goes to voicemail. I’m looking at the ground as I walk so none of the oncoming tourists see my eyes well up, and that’s why I spot them.

Aled’s keys are on the ground.

I recognise the insufferable amount of keyrings, all planets and spaceships and Universe City iconography. I pick the bunch up. It still has the little radio-shaped charm I got him which plays a tinny electronic tune for a few seconds when you press a button. Pressing it now makes Daisy stop to look at me, to peer into my hands, to take a little sharp intake of breath, automatically then looking over the bridge, where I’ve been avoiding looking. It’s not like he’d be swimming about on the surface, if he had… jumped. But he wouldn’t, I tell myself as all these images flash through my head, he’s been fine, I think, and I lean over the edge of the bridge and watch the water ripple and really try to focus on the sparkling of the water and not think about what would happen to a person who slipped down underneath the surface. I’m shaking like it’s freezing out even though there’s a warm breeze and flinch under Daisy’s hand on my shoulder and wow, I’m shaking _so hard_ , I almost drop my phone into the river, and I almost let it, I can’t be bothered to stop it, but then it lights up. It’s him.

“Where the _fucking fuck_ are you?” I screech. There’s silence for a moment and I wonder if I’ve made it up and he’s really gone, and then I hear his little voice.

“Uh, I’m at home.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, oh my god,” I say, but I’m not shouting now, the tears fall and it’s like all the adrenaline, everything that’s been building since the moment I saw his empty room, all of it goes in an instant and I collapse on the pavement, trying my best to look like I casually just wanted a sit down so that the tourists don’t interfere and ask me if I’m okay. They still look at me oddly as they step over me.

“Are you okay?” I hear from the phone.

“Yes. Yeah. Are you?” I ask.

“Um, yeah. Are you… at work?”

“No. Where are you calling from?”

“I lost my phone, so I’m in the phonebox down the road. And I lost my keys. And no one is home.”

“Stay right there, I’m coming now.” I hang up before either of us can ask any more questions - this will need to be a face-to-face conversation.

 

*****

 

Carys seems angry. I’ve seen this plenty of times before, but it’s never been directed at me, and I shift nervously under her gaze, my knuckles going white with how hard I’m gripping my mug. For the first time in over 12 hours, the feeling is starting to come back into my hands. It’s funny, I didn’t notice the cold so much when I was out in it.

No one has said anything yet, and the painful silence is only broken when Daisy makes an excuse about having to call her work and removes herself from the tension. Now there’s no one sitting between me and Carys, no one to save me from her wrath, but actually, now I’m looking straight at her and not into the depths of my tea, she seems more worn out than mad.

My eyelids are drooping, and she needs to go to work, and yet we are both just sitting here in silence. I guess for once I need to be the one to start the difficult conversation.

“I’m sorry for making you late for work,” I say. No, that’s not right. That’s not what I should be sorry for, but it’s too hard to make the words that address the thing directly.

“It’s fine,” says Carys. Silence again.

“And I’m sorry for making you worried.” She just looks at me, like she’s trying to look through my face into my brain, or something. Or maybe she’s just not sure what to say. That’s usually my problem though, not hers.

“How did you lose your phone?” she asks finally.

“I dropped it on the bridge. It fell in the river.”

“Right.” Her eyebrows are arched, skeptical, and she sips her coffee, and randomly I’m reminded of all the dumb tea-sipping memes and I smile. She looks at me sharply.

“This isn’t funny. You can’t disappear like that. Please.” Her voice is shaking, desperate, and it’s only now that I realise how much she actually cares, now her mask of impassivity is cracked. I shuffle towards her a little, wondering how many times I’ve missed her moments of sadness, just like I’m always complaining she misses mine. Maybe we’re both just as self-obsessed. Actually, Carys has always looked out for me, she’s always felt like a big sister, even though we’re the same age, and I’ve never ever done anything to help her. She’s never needed help from anyone. Or so it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” I say, again. “I’ll text you next time, it’s just that I lost my phone.”

“Yeah, right. When did you lose your phone? Can’t have been until the early hours at least, if it was all the way over at the bridge. I mean, even if I’m annoying and you don’t want to talk to me, you still can’t disappear, especially when you’ve been all weird and distant lately -”

“I do want to talk to you.”

“Ha. It’s okay, I get that I’m not like you or your friends, I’m not clever or creative, and I don’t really get a lot of your Universe City stuff, like, it kind of goes over my head and I ask dumb questions…”

“You don’t.” I don’t know what to say without it sounding cheesy. I can’t believe Carys thinks like this. It feels like when you realise your parents are people too, with insecurities and stuff. I shouldn’t have to tell Carys how amazing and smart and charming and funny she is, she just _knows_ that stuff, you can see it in the way she carries herself so fearlessly.

“Anyway,” she says, “I just mean, you haven’t seemed as okay as you have been recently. So if you need help with anything, could you please just talk to me instead of wandering off into the darkness?” I smile a little at this.

“You make it sound so poetic.”

“More like pretentious and Tumblr-y.” She smiles back, kind of, then downs the rest of her coffee. “Has something been bothering you recently?”

“Uh… Nothing specific. I’m just kind of…” I shrug. I can’t explain. “I can’t explain.”

“Isn’t there someone you can talk to? What about your therapist?”

My therapist. I try to make her understand what’s wrong, but I’ve been seeing her long enough to be able to predict her standardised replies. Mindfulness, make friends, practise breathing exercises, get more sleep. It’s like talking to a robot.

“I’m not sure she’s helping anymore.” That’s the first time I’ve admitted that to anyone, including myself. It feels… disappointing. It feels like... “It feels like I’ve already tried everything, I’ve followed all the advice, self care, reaching out for professional help, putting yourself first, getting out of your comfort zone, and nothing has worked. I just feel like there’s nothing left, everyone’s done everything they can, and I’m still like this. There’s nothing left.”

Daisy comes back into the room.

“I’m going to work,” she says, leaving that statement hanging as though it’s a question. Is Carys going too?

“You can go,” I say to her. “I’m okay.” She pauses. She’s not the comforting type, Carys. Her usual approach to dealing with me, what she always did when she was first burdened with me, when I first moved in, was she would take the piss. She had a good feel for when it was appropriate, and in a good natured way, she would mock my neuroses until I was able to laugh at them myself. But I guess she can sense that now isn’t a time for jokes, but she doesn’t know what else to say, what might make it all better.

“You sure?” she asks, already standing up from the couch, reaching for her jacket.

“Yeah.” I smile, and she goes, and I’m back in this empty house, warmer than I was last night, but alone, again.

Hours pass.

The same thoughts keep going round and round in my head, replaying the past day, the past few weeks, the past year.

Everything is wrong. I probably should talk to someone, Carys is right, but I don’t know, the idea of wallowing in this is more comforting than the idea of talking. Not that I have a phone to call anyone with.

It’s all just first world problems anyway, I should just stop being so goddamn self-pitying. I go to my bedroom then back to the kitchen then the bathroom. I decide to take a nap but I can’t sleep, maybe because I’m so tired. I decide to watch a film but I keep zoning out and not being able to follow the story. Maybe I should rewatch something. I look through the few DVDs we have, nothing interests me. Everything on Netflix is trash.

I’m in the bathroom and was about to take a shower but now I’ve been just staring in the mirror for a while. I look strange. I love when you’re writing or making stuff or listening to music or whatever and you get so absorbed in it that you just forget you have a body, and it doesn’t matter what colour your hair is or what stupid faces you make when you’re concentrating or whether people call you “he” or “she” or something else, because you’re not you, you are whatever you’re doing. I look strange maybe because I’ve let my hair grow a little longer than I like it recently, just because I couldn’t be bothered to cut it, and because most of the pink has faded out so I just look ashy blonde again. Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep last night, or because of the suspicious stare of the person in the mirror. Or… is my face less round than it was? When was the last time I ate?

In my bedroom, the takeaway from last night is still there, cold and untouched on my desk. You’re not supposed to eat stuff that’s been sitting out that long, not meat anyway, but I pick at some cold chips, not wanting that ten pounds to go completely to waste. They taste a bit like playdough, soft and salty.

I pick my laptop off the floor and go to my emails, and there aren’t as many as I remember there being, I mean, it’s overwhelming but I could probably get it down within a week. The most recent email is from Frances, which is weird. I click on it.

 

from Frances <toulouserr@gmail.com> 14:54

Subject: u ok

Hello there, Carys told me you lost your phone. Tragic D:< JUST WHEN I NEED YOUR MIDNIGHT ENCOURAGEMENT TEXTS THE MOST. You know how I was saying I was going to ask that professor for an extension because I just can’t cope? He didn’t give it to me!!!!! I mean it’s my own fault for being behind but still,,, how dare he.

Anywho, this was supposed to be a POSITIVE message. Ahem. You’re an awesome pal and I’ve done a portrait of you for one of my projects. Plz see attached image. (Hope u don’t mind I didn’t ask permission but I wanted to surprise you :3)

 Can’t wait for this year to be over, we must celebrate with a Universe City sesh as soon as I’m free. I think I said this before but I didn’t think art could be this stressful.

 Sincerely, your BFF

Xxxxx

 

“I didn’t think art could be stressful,” I read. I remember the feeling of working to multiple deadlines at once, how even when you’re resting, time is passing, the end is coming closer, and there’s nothing you can do to have a time out. It’s kind of like the feeling of all the emails piling up. But worse, obviously. I’m glad to be out of university, it was nothing but painful the whole time. And my life is so much better now, right? I feel better. Nothing could feel as bad as university.

Except that I don’t exactly feel good. And I still wake up from dreams about tests I haven’t revised for. And at least at university I had a goal, and my life had structure, and no matter how alone I was, I always felt some kind of connection to all the other students who were suffering through with me. Now everyone is always telling me how lucky I am. They wish they were in my place, they wish they could work for themselves, they wish they had a fandom full of people who love everything they do, they wish they could quit education and go and follow their dreams. I feel so bad that I don’t feel better. And I can’t let anyone know how crushing the weight of everything is, because I know I’m just being ungrateful.

I open the email attachment and the portrait is just beautiful. It’s an oil painting, so not Frances’ style, but I guess in fine art she might not be allowed to just draw her cartoons. I can tell she’s improved so much already, and she still has two years to go after this. She’s going to be an objectively brilliant artist. That, at least, is making me feel something. Something good-ish.

The painting version of me has pink hair and big eyes and a smile, and sort of blends into the cityscape background, like I’m a ghost, or an extra limb of a building. Okay.

In the bathroom I get out gloves, hair dye, brushes. I start out painting the pink on in small strokes, being careful, choosing the strips exactly, but pretty soon I’ve abandoned that and am just squishing great puddles of dye into my hair and smearing it in. Like always. I love the familiar smell of it, smells clean and sweet.

When my hair is saturated, I cover it up with cling film - it’s like I have a bald head, scalp shimmery and cracking - and I feel a sleepiness come back over me. I go and lie down in bed, cocooning myself in the duvet, and the world disappears.

 

*****

 

I wake up and it’s dark. I don’t know how long I’ve slept for - it could be hours, or days. Everything feels pretty unreal in those first few moments when you wake up. I keep my eyes shut, wanting to fall back into sleep, but when I roll over, there is a cold, wet sensation on my neck and I jolt upright. The pillow is all red, like I’ve been bleeding, and a panic hits me even as I remember the hair dye. Oh shit, you’re only supposed to leave this stuff in for 20 minutes. I stumble to the bathroom and thoroughly soak my head in the shower. There’s splotches around my hairline and my neck and my t-shirt, but that’s not the worst of it. My hair is bright pink. Neon, highlighter pink. It seems so dumb, like, it’s just hair, and it will fade, but everything feels so overwhelming and sitting on the edge of the bathtub, scrubbing my hair with Head & Shoulders, I feel so goddamn ridiculous. My face might match my hair right now, that’s how gross I feel about it. This was supposed to make me feel better.

“Aled?” There’s a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” I call.

“You okay? You’ve, uh, been in there a while.” What the hell does Carys want? She’ll take the piss as soon as she sees me.

“I’m just doing my hair,” I say.

“Okay, well could you hurry up? I have a surprise for you.”

“That sounds sinister. What is it?” I ask.

“Boy, do you not know what a surprise is? You have to come out and see.”

“Well, I’ll be out in a bit.”

“Dude, how long? I’ve been waiting for forever for you to wake up and I want to show you this before I go to sleep.”

“How late is it?” I ask.

“Like midnight.”

“Oh.” I rinse the suds from my hair and keep my head under the tap, waiting for the water to run clear like it says on the bottle, but it just keeps streaming pink. I hear muffled noises under the running water and turn it off to listen. There’s a scraping, scratching at the door.

“Okay, fine, I’m coming out.” I wrap my head in my towel and unlock the door, but before I can step out something slams through the door and into my legs, nearly knocking me into the bath. It’s a blur of fluff and tongue and panting. A small but fully grown dog. Ha.

“Carys?” I shout, and she comes running.

“Oh, balls, I wanted to see your face,” she says, but I’m grinning, and she’s grinning, and the doggo bounds back to Carys to be scooped up in her arms. We go down to the living room, turning on the lights, and stand watching the dog jump about, excitable as a puppy.

“Do you like her?” asks Carys.

“Yeah, why?” I ask.

“Because she’s yours. If you want her. To keep you company.” She watches for my reaction. This is so like Carys, getting a dog for someone without even asking, trying to fix things with grand gestures. I know I should be mad, it’s so irresponsible...

“Wow, that’s-” The dog jumps at me from the sofa, leaving hairs and a trace of warmth in my arms as she ricochets away again. “That… might actually be a good idea,” I say. Carys smiles and nods, like she always knew it was, like she wasn’t at all uncertain.

“I mean,” I say, “It’ll take a lot of my time to train her. Look at her, she’s uncontrollable. And I have so much to do right now.”

“Yeah, but me and Daisy will help you,” Carys says, and makes a clicking sound with her tongue, at which the dog stops and comes to rest calmly at her feet. “And we’ll all have to hide her from the landlady. So what are you going to name her?” she asks.

 

*****

 

Can’t sleep. But this time it’s not because of heart palpitations or endless whirlpools of thinking, but because of the dog at the end of my bed. And maybe also because I just slept 12 hours through the day. So much for correcting my sleep schedule.

The dog doesn’t seem to be sleeping well either, maybe because she can sense my excitement. I check my clock and it’s 2AM. How long until I can take her out for a walk? Is 6AM too early? Nah…

I think I must have fallen asleep because it’s getting light now, and the sunlight wakes me up where it’s reflecting in the windows of the house opposite. No dog.

It’s almost 7AM. I get up in a panic. What if a window was left open and she got out? What if she followed Daisy out on her run? I check the living room, the kitchen, everywhere, increasingly frantic, until I hear a yelp from upstairs. I hurry up as Carys emerges from her bedroom carrying a bundle of fur.

“Keep your dog under control. She woke me up.”

“You got her!”

“Ugh. The stuff I do to keep you happy.” Carys dumps the dog on me, but her grumpy act is not convincing, especially when she turns back to boop the dog on the nose.  “What have you called her?” she asks.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say.

“Better name her soon, or what would you put on the posters if she goes missing?” she says.

“She won’t go missing,” I say, not letting on that I had just been convinced that she’d escaped in my sleep.

“Mmm.” Carys goes back to bed. Time for a walk.

 

*****

 

I feel so cut off from the world. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing, but it doesn’t feel as bad as it usually does. Frances will be so psyched when she knows I have a dog. But I don’t have a phone with me, and opening my laptop would mean having to face work. I was supposed to post a Universe City episode today, and I haven’t even finished writing the script, let alone recording it. I can feel myself starting to spiral, and I wish I had my phone with me, music to block out the sounds of the early morning, which you’d think would be soothing in this isolated dog park, but somehow even the sounds of footsteps are loud and echoey and disconcerting right now. And then I am grounded by the feeling of the dog tugging on the lead.

I start running to keep up, speeding up as she senses that I’m joining in, challenging me to run faster. I’m out of breath but smiling, the image of running through a field with Brian and Frances coming to mind. The memory of Brian stings still, but it’s not as all-consuming as it used to be. But now, the thought of Mum is forcing itself on me, how she smiled when she told me, the sound of her voice through my phone when she called me last night. How did she find my new number?

I have to stop running as my chest tightens. It feels like a stitch but it doesn’t go away when I sit down, instead rising into a panic attack as my brain spins this story of Mum stalking me, finding me, is she here now? I look around. There’s a person walking nearby, but it can’t be her, can it? I can’t see properly. I try to do the breathing techniques my therapist is always going on about, and I don’t think it’s working. Well, the physical symptoms are going away, I think, but the thoughts are still there. And that’s the worst part of it.

Carys didn’t ask about anything I’d said when I first got back home. About nothing helping me. She just presented the dog like it’d smooth everything over. I mean, I feel a little better, with her tugging at my sleeve, wanting to keep running. But all the thoughts are still inside me, and I can’t tell them to anyone else, no one but Carys knows what Mum is like. I mean, Frances and Dan kind of do. But not really.

Maybe I should go to the doctor’s again, get referred to someone else. My therapist refused to diagnose me with anything, arguing that labels can be harmful, but I can’t breathe or see or think properly right now, and this happens so much, and I think there must be more going on inside my head than can be fixed with mindfulness. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

“Are you okay?” says a voice. I look up and some guy is standing over me, and then his dog and my dog are play-fighting, and I jump up to pull them apart.

“Sorry,” I say as my dog runs behind him, almost tripping him up with the lead until I let go. Then of course the dogs run off. “Come back!” I call, but of course, there’s no reaction.

“They’ll be okay,” says the guy. “Are you crying?” he asks.

“Uh,” I say. Am I? I wipe my face and it’s wet. I guess I was.

“What’s your dog called?” he asks.

“Uh,” I repeat. God, I can’t cope with unexpected interaction _at all._ “Nothing. I mean, I haven’t named her yet. Got her last night.”

“Ah, exciting. I’ve had Dylan for 3 years now. He’s a rescue dog and is getting old, but as you can see, he’s still trying to be a puppy.”

We watch the dogs in silence, I can’t think of anything to say, and I’m suddenly aware that this guy has really awesome purple hair and I feel ridiculous, fluorescent pink hair with the stains of dye still on my face.

“Uh, what’s your name?” I ask.

“Bea. How about you?”

“Uh, Aled.”

“Okay, Aled. So if you’re alright, how come you were sitting on the ground?”

“... Just… Having a bit of a panic.” I don’t want to talk about this, but there’s no other way I can think of to explain. I guess I could walk away from this awkward encounter but I want to know more.

“Ah, I’ve been there, my friend,” Bea says.

There is silence. It drags on for way longer than it should, and my mind is kind of blank, nothing to say.

“I’ve never heard of a guy being called Bea before,” I say finally.

Bea rolls their eyes a little. “Me neither.”

“Right…”

“I’m actually not a guy,” he says. Oh, shit.

“Oh, uh, I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t-” I think I’m probably bright red right now, my face is so hot.

“Yo, it’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever. It’s a common mistake.”

“I really am so sorry…”

“Don’t worry. It’s annoying when cishets do that all the time, like, called me “he” even when I’ve said I prefer “them”. Not that I have anything against cishets, like, they’re not a homogenous group or anything-”

“Hashtag not all cishets,” I say.

“Ha! So, like, you’re queer then? Not to be presumptuous, but… I’m getting a vibe.”

“Uh… I guess.”

“Cool.” Bea holds out their fist, and I bump it uncertainly.

“So, um… I guess… I’ve seen people online who use they/them and other pronouns and stuff, and I guess I’ve kind of been wondering lately about it but… It’s just a bit overwhelming. All the different possibilities. And contradictions. Like the argument about whether you need to be dysphoric to be trans?”

“Yeah, the internet’s a bit of a shit show. I love it though. But you don’t have to figure out everything at once or worry about what other people’s definitions are of different labels and stuff. Perhaps you should think about you, without consulting Tumblr for answers. Sorry, that sounds dead patronising.”

“It’s okay. That’s… Helpful. But, like, how did you know what you were?”

“I mean, I knew I wasn’t male or female. To be honest, I haven’t figured out anything more specific than that, but it works fine. If people ask I tend to say I’m non-binary. You don’t have to be able to explain your gender to anyone if you don’t want to. You don’t have to adopt labels that you don’t like just to make it easier for other people to understand. And you’re young, you have plenty of time to work it out.”

The dogs come back, thank god. I kneel to untangle the lead, which has been dragging in the mud this whole time, and Bea clips their lead on Dylan as well.

“I’ve got work now,” Bea says, but doesn’t walk away.

“Okay. Thanks for the help,” I say. They start to leave and I’m too scared of being on my own with this again to be afraid of saying “Um, could I have your number? Or something?”

 

*****

 

“What are you looking at?” asks Carys when I get home. I’ve been via the Carphone Warehouse to get a replacement phone, and the dog is exhausted, flopping at my feet as soon as I sit down.

“Nothing,” I say, screwing up my hand into a fist. Carys pokes me in the arm, like when we were kids, and when I push her away, she grabs my hand and reads the number written on the palm.

“Dude what are you doing? You have a boyfriend,” says Carys.

“I know! This isn’t - this is just someone I met in the dog park,” I say. “You don’t have to turn everything into a romantic encounter.”

“I’m sorry, I guess it’s just because everyone who meets me falls madly in love with me. You named the dog yet?” She reaches down to scratch behind her ears.

“Yeah, Bea,” I say. I know, I know. Cheesy, naming her after someone who just showed up and changed my life. It sounds dramatic, but I feel more peaceful than I have in a while, like I’ve got a weight off my chest.

But it’s just because I like the name.

“Noice,” says Carys. “New phone I see. Daniel called the other day, by the way. He was worried about you. I hope you don’t mind, but I told him and Frances you needed cheering up. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Frances emailed me. Do you think there’s any way to get my old contacts onto this phone?” I unwrap it, spilling all the unnecessary paperwork everywhere.

“I dunno. You should have thought about that before you threw it in the river.”

I look up at Carys, surprised.

“Aha! I know that guilty face. Why’d you do it?”

“Mum called.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yeah.” I turn the phone on, clicking through all the setup screens.

“Maybe we should get a restraining order,” says Carys. She doesn’t seem to be joking.

“That… seems like a bit much.”

“She’s harassing you! It’s relentless! She might never stop otherwise.”

“Yeah but… she’s our mum. No one’s going to believe that a mum should be banished from seeing her children. Gender roles and that.”

“No mother should act like this. What’s wrong with her? How the fuck did she get your new number? Again?”

I just shrug. I feel kind of dirty, I don’t know how to describe it. Like I’m being watched. Thinking back on those times when I was staying with Frances, after I’d dropped out, and whenever I went out the house, she’d be there. She wouldn’t talk to me, she’d just be looking, from a window, or the front garden, or her car parked on the street. And now I live miles and miles away, and she can still find me.

“At least she doesn’t turn up here anymore,” I say, getting up to put the WiFi password in my new phone. Bea gets up to follow me to the router, staying at my heel until I’m back on the sofa and she can resume her nap.

“I really think we should go to the police. This has been going on too long.”

“We don’t have any proof. Anyway, I’ll be free of her for a while.” I wiggle the new phone in her face, then search “How to get contacts from a lost phone”. From scrolling it doesn’t seem like there’s a straightforward way to do it. “Ugh, I’ve got to get all my contacts again.” I stand up, and Bea rouses herself again. I guess she likes me already.

“Okay, well, if you don’t want to, I won’t make you. But this is really batshit. I’m just worried if we let her keep on like this, she’ll… I don’t know. Do something bad.”

“She’s not that bad, Carys. I mean, she is, but like, she never _hurt_ us… On purpose.”

“Hmm. I wonder how much of that was her need to look respectable. I reckon there were a few times where she would have hit me if she could.”

I don’t know what to say. I just go and hug Carys, and that doesn’t really make anything better, but it’s all I can do.

“I don’t think she’s ever going to change,” she says.

“No. I feel bad for her,” I say.

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’ve got an amazing life now. Like, I mean, you’re allowed to be sad and angry and stuff, but I just mean, it’s kind of brilliant, isn’t it? If you think about everything Mum used to say to you. Now you have great friends and a job you love and you’re, like, a genuinely good person, and she has none of that. She’s all alone now, and look where you are.”

She looks up at me and smiles.

“I hope she’s suffering,” she says.

 

*****

 

“I found a therapist,” says Carys. She’s in a leather jacket even though it’s summer now and we actually have warm weather. She’ll probably have it tied around her waist within a few minutes of dancing.

“Congrats! Wow, now everyone has something to celebrate this evening,” says Frances.

“When are you seeing them?” asks Daisy.

“After work on Tuesdays,” says Carys.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

“Nah,” she says, but I think it’s because Frances and Dan are here. Carys pulls her sleeves over her hands a bit, a habit I know well.

Carys has had trouble sleeping, ever since the night I disappeared, and she tells me it’s not my fault, but I still can’t bear to see her falling to pieces, and it feels like I’ve infected her with my neuroticism. The fact that she was so easily persuaded by me to look for therapists is kind of concerning. I was expecting her to insist that she could handle it by herself, and be back to normal in a few weeks. I guess she’s more delicate than I realised. It’s scary, she was always so good at handling things, but I’m trying to be optimistic, to believe that therapy will make her better again, even if it didn’t for me. Maybe it’s because of my own selfish need to believe that people can be okay. Sometimes it seems like everyone is just pretending to be okay and no one is truly happy.

“Drink, Daniel?” says Frances, offering him the bottle of vodka everyone’s been passing around. We’re all going out clubbing to celebrate Dan and Frances making it through their first year, and Daisy quitting her job. Apparently her boss was a bit leery with her. I never knew.

“No, thank you,” says Dan.

“C’mon, exams are over, time to loosen up!” says Frances. “All the cool kids are drinking.”

“Are you trying to peer pressure me?”

“Yes, is it working?”

“No.”

“Aww.” She takes a swig, then almost chokes from the pungent taste of undiluted alcohol.

“Need a chaser?” Dan slides his hot chocolate towards her, and Frances takes a sip.

“Ugh, vodka does not go with chocolate,” she says.

I love them. This summer is going to be so good, they both have so much more freedom for the next few months. Dan’s staying here for an entire week before going home, a whole week of waking up next to each other and walking Bea and catching up on all that’s been happening. I can’t wait to tell him about Bea - the person, that is, not the dog. I might have actually managed to make a friend in London, a friend who kind of gets all this gender stuff.

Frances is wearing the Universe City leggings. I still haven’t got around to putting those on sale - ever since dumping my management, things have been a lot harder, there’s a lot more to do. I do need to find someone to help me out, but those guys - they were trying to help, but I needed more control, and now at least I’m making all my own decisions. And they wouldn’t stop complaining about Frances not keeping up. Dickheads.

“Ready to go?” Daisy asks, addressing everyone. Carys downs her wine, Frances gets her coat on - a denim jacket customised by Frances herself with acrylic paint, made to look like Van Gogh’s sunflowers. She’s such an art hoe. She trots out after Daisy, complementing her dress, clearly trying to impress her.

“You okay?” asks Dan, putting a hand on my shoulder. He’s beautiful, and I missed him, and I have the sudden urge to kiss him. Then I do. And we just look at each other for a few moments.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say.

“Me too,” he says. “I’m not sure I’ll last that long tonight though. I’ve not stayed up late in a while.”

“Well we can come back as soon as you like,” I say.

“Just us two?” he asks, leaning in to kiss me again.

“Gayy,” comes a voice. Frances is at the door. “You coming? We need to get there ASAP if you’re going to fit in all the shots.”

“What shots?” I ask.

“One shot for every subscriber you’ve got! We agreed that’s how we would mark the occasion.”

“Oh yes, my two hundred thousand shots. Dan, how long do you think that would take?”

We walk out, arm in arm, leaving the hall lights on so Bea doesn’t get scared.

“Well, if you managed one shot per minute, and there are about 1440 minutes in a day… about 140 days, I think? So twenty weeks.”

“Stop being so good at maths,” says Frances.

“That’s more arithmetic, actually,” says Dan.

They continue to bicker all the way down the street, but I’m not really listening, because I’m watching the lights of the city come on as dusk falls, like the stars coming out.

 

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